


We're Gonna Talk about Yosemite

by firstbreaths



Series: and honestly that's why public service seems to be calling me [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6289783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstbreaths/pseuds/firstbreaths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of things John Laurens struggles with, including not provoking fights, eating enough vegetables, and unbecoming crushes on high-ranking federal officials, but damn, he’s good at his job. Even a meeting with Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton, said high-ranking federal official, can't ruin that for him. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Gonna Talk about Yosemite

**Author's Note:**

> This is a retelling of [Alexander Hamilton: Human Scandal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5960011) from John's perspective, although you can read them in either order. I have plans to write more in this 'verse, so this is designed to give a clearer picture of everyone's relationships with each other. (and yeah, I'm not talking about how this fic is ~4000 words longer than the original).

If john had to think about when all the drama started, he’d rewind 176 days, to the night that President Washington officially won re-election for another four years. John had been alone at his father’s house in South Carolina, with his father out charming half the South Carolinian Republican Party, and he’d childishly turned the TV up as loud as he could, even though no one was home to hear Washington’s victory speech, except him. He should have known better than to visit at the height of the election period, even if it’s the one time he can get off work easily. Turns out, when there’s the potential for a lame duck presidency, depending on who wins, about all the Director of the National Parks Service can do is read about the conservation of _real_ ducks.  

Washington’s speech had been eloquent, if a little long-winded in parts, and John had cheered along, not even caring as he sloshed some of the beer he was waving about down his shirt. And then they’d cut to one of the many victory parties taking part around the country, only for half the screen to be taken up by a shot of someone’s right cheek and jaw. As they’d zoomed out, the first thing John had noticed was the guy’s eyes, which sparkled in the glint of the TV cameras and strong strobe lights, and then the stubble across his jaw line, in contrast to his flushed face and his swollen, plump upper lip, which is caught between his teeth as he gives the camera a flirtatious grin. 

“You know,” the guy drawls, in a voice that sounds vaguely familiar, and John’s sitting up straighter, shoulders angled slightly towards the TV, even before he realises it, “the worst thing about this entire party is that tomorrow, we’re going to be out there, going ten rounds with the Republicans on social security, but everyone will be commenting on Martha Washington’s ballgown – you look great in Versace by the way, Mrs First Lady –“ he yells across the room, and -

As the camera captures his whole face, it clicks. Alexander Hamilton, Treasury Secretary of the United States, known for being _loud_ in every facet of his personality (there’s even a Youtube video of someone acting out his capslock-filled Tweets).

“ - _like_ income inequality isn’t a real issue and our social security system doesn’t disadvantage the people who need it most,” Hamilton adds, waving about the glass of wine in his own hand. “While the Republicans just claim that they should get a _job_ – well the joke’s on you, Clinton, because you just failed the world’s biggest job interview.”

At some point he jumps up on a table, almost knocking a bewildered party-goer in a campaign t-shirt over in the process. The party going on behind him is loud, and John has to listen intently to make out half of what’s he saying. He vaguely wonders _why_ Washington lets him get away with his behaviour, even as he knows; no one else in their country has the economic mind of Alexander Hamilton, and his online antics were probably a factor in getting the youth vote at this election, given Hamilton’s presence on social media.

“I’m just saying,” Hamilton says, to a cheering fan who barely looks eighteen, “there’s a lot of things we’re going to fix this term, starting with making sure that every single damn one of our citizens has access to the resources they need to get ahead. Also mandating the Oxford Comma,” – he waves his phone about in the area, “I’ve been reading your Tweets, and seriously Seabury, you’re gonna get hung for your terrible use of prepositions; I’ve told you about –“

“Hamilton, get down from there,” comes an angry voice from the side, and then Hamilton blows a kiss at the screen as the White House Press Secretary, Angelica Schuyler, whisks him away, and John just collapses back into his chair, spins his mostly empty beer bottle between his hands, and waits for his father to come home.

(He downs the rest of the beer – and another one – trying to focus on anything other than Alexander Hamilton’s stupid smile, and wonders if this is how revolutions really begin, not with a bang, or a whimper, but with a drunken, half-formed rant).

*****

He mostly forgets about Alexander Hamilton after that. He forgets about Alexander Hamilton, as much as one can when he’s in the news every few days for pissing off Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson, or he’s written another multi-page op ed for the Washington Post that every damn commuter seems to be reading on the Metro, because he has work to do. John forgets about Alexander Hamilton until he’s eating lunch at his desk whilst absentmindedly checking Facebook and he stumbles across a video someone he knew from college has posted a link to an interview with the Treasury Secretary, followed by a long-winded rant about how every time Alexander Hamilton goes on TV its another waste of his hard-earned taxpayer dollars.   

And then -

*****

HOST: With us this morning, we have Alexander Hamilton, the Treasury Secretary, to talk us through President Washington’s new tax plan which, if passed, will see the most drastic redistribution of wealth in American history. And yet, the plan is highly controversial, not least thanks to Virginian Congressman James Madison’s comments this week that it may, in fact, be unconstitutional. Secretary Hamilton, it’s a pleasure to have you on the show. First off, can you explain why the White House is so sure that its Bill will hold up to scrutiny?

HAMILTON: Has _no one_ read the 81-page explanatory memorandum for this plan that I posted on my blog last week? I mean, I’m happy to explain it, starting with my argument on page 17 about the Supreme Court’s interpretation of the Necessary and Proper Cause, but you really need to read it to see the links between that case and the point that I make on page 58 -

HOST: Isn’t the Bill going before the House of Representatives this week only 70 pages long?

HAMILTON: Well yes, but -

HOST: And what about your working relationship with Washington? He’s a former Army General with a limited economic background, trying to pass the biggest reform to our taxation system since the New Deal. And there are reports, of course, about how much power you wield in the Cabinet room.

HAMILTON: Not enough, apparently, if Thomas Jefferson is still able to leak fake rumors about me. The man’s about as subtle as the Cheshire Cat when it comes to these things – and that’s before he dons that hideous purple suit.

HOST: Right, so you stand by your claim that this tax plan will easily pass Congress in the first 100 days of Washington’s term, then?

HAMILTON: Absolutely. This Bill is the culmination of months of work that started even before President Washington got re-elected, and while I usually have a _lot_ to say about the ruckus that is the United States House of Representatives, in this case I think its prudent not to reveal too many details about the compromise that was struck. Except to say that Jefferson has a terrible poker face, and -

HOST: Well, I think that about sums it up. Next, I wanted to ask you about -

HAMILTON: Oh, and one more thing. While I’m here making Lewis Carroll references rather than, you know, ensuring the economic stability of this country, maybe I should point out that Madison’s the Mad Hatter – although perhaps we should be glad he’s got just enough sense to shy away from the Tea Party. Although, I wonder what his more hard-line Republican colleagues would say if they read any single one of the _twenty-nine_ essays he wrote about the US Constitution in college, all of which support the constitutionality of the White House’s tax plan.

HOST: Well, I’m ah sure someone – oh, you’re distributing them right here. I’m sure the crowd greatly appreciates you thinking of them on this occasion; we love it when our live studio audience gets to go home with gifts. Ladies and gentlemen, once again, let’s thank the Treasury Secretary, Alexander Hamilton, for being here today. (to someone off-screen) Can we get a janitor on standby to clean this place up?

Cut to promo –

_And tomorrow we’re joined by historian Samuel Seabury, to tell us all about his new book “The Love Songs of King George III”, which tells the coming-of-age story of the young monarch._

HAMILTON (off-screen): If Samuel Seabury’s books are actually being classed as history and not poorly written self-insert medieval erotica, then truth really is stranger than fiction. And trust me, I’ve heard Jefferson say shit in the Cabinet room that you would _not_ believe. Starting with him trying to give me advice on my social media presence when he’s _still_ retweeting “I can has cheezburger” memes from five years ago.

HOST: You realise your mic was still on, right?

HAMILTON: Shit. Angie’s gonna kill me.  

*****

John’s not stupid, he knows what a crush feels like, and he has one. More importantly, it feels kind of nice; when you’re 34 years old and have an important job in a city full of important people, taking five minutes to sit at your desk and grin stupidly at a Youtube clip feels _rebellious_ , in all the best ways.  

He’s John Laurens, which also means he has a plan. More often than not, he’ll shred said plan with his bare hands and scatter it out the window before the day is out (or at least throw it in the shredder, if it’s particularly confidential), but still. He has a plan.

First, he’s going to watch the video again.

*****

**To:** j.laurens@interior.gov.au

**From:** c.livingston@interior.gov.au

**Subject:** this afternoon’s meeting

John, 

We’re going to have to postpone today’s 3pm meeting about the wolf highway thing. Not sure if you saw, but Hamilton went on _another_ rant on national TV, so there’s no way I’m getting out of Cabinet in under three hours today. Maybe two and a half if Washington cuts Jefferson off before he and Hamilton start fighting in French. Besides, von Stueben has all but made it his mission to cuss in every language of the European Union before the year is out, so let us hope that Hamilton doesn’t catch on and decide to defend his schemes in Polish.  I swear they’re _feral_ , all of them.

Kitty

To: a.adams@interior.gov.au

**From:** j.laurens@interior.gov.au

**Subject:** RE: this afternoon’s meeting

Kitty,

I saw it. Our dear Treasury Secretary is a force to be reckoned with, that’s for sure. He’s had a while to Polish his arguments, after all.

I’ll have Theodosia reschedule the wolf highway brigade for some time in the next administration. I shall never say this out loud, but it would _almost_ be worth letting the Republicans win if it meant we didn’t have to deal with them.

_Bonne chance!_

John

**To:** j.laurens@interior.gov.au

**From:** c.livingston@interior.gov.au

**Subject:** get me out of here

At what point does being Secretary of the Interior give you the right to tip Thomas Jefferson’s swivel chair so he falls on his ass?

Kitty

Sent from my iPhone

(PS. If you _dare_ mention a possible Republican victory again, I’m airing your terrible puns all over Twitter, and what little game you have will be ruined).  

*****

Later that evening, John’s plan doesn’t go as well as he’d like.

For what it’s worth, he should have known that convincing Hercules Mulligan to let him skulk – Hercules’ words, not his – around in the lobby of the Treasury Building until he just _happened_ to run into Alexander Hamilton was a bad idea. Hercules doesn’t have a reputation as the best and most discreet building manager in DC for nothing. If he had as much hair as John does, it would _definitely_ be full of secrets.  

Still, after the day he’s had, John could do with a drink, so it’s not like the evening’s a complete waste. Ever since they’d bonded on Twitter over a bunch of racist Republicans, proceeding to DM each other with their most _vile_ comebacks (John wasn’t _quite_ stupid enough to lose a job he loved over a bunch of low-lives, and Hercules needed to keep the moral high ground so that he could routinely talk his boss – the same guy John kind of has a bit of a crush on – out of his own online tirades) they’ve tried to catch up at least one a month for a beer.

“So, let me get this straight –“ John starts, after buying them both another round.  

“I can’t just let you into the Treasury Building without a good reason,” Hercules repeats for the third time that night, wrapping his hands around his glass.

“Wanting to meet the guy who’s fifth in line to the United States presidency isn’t a good reason?” John shoots back.

Hercules cocks his head to the side, pretending to think about it. “Even if it were, no one would believe that was the reason. Alex has a – ah – reputation for being soul-destroyingly brilliant in meetings. Emphasis on the soul-destroying.”

Well, it wasn’t like John had doubted that. President Washington had absolutely annihilated the Republicans in his re-election campaign with the most ambitious reform agenda anyone can remember seeing in a while, including a huge tax plan at the centre, so he certainly couldn’t afford his Treasury Secretary to be a shrinking violet. Not that anything Alexander Hamilton had done over the past four years would invite that expression anyway. Plus, when John thinks back to this morning’s press conference, the thing he’d noticed first – second, actually, after Hamilton’s long, slender fingers, since his hands did not stop moving as he talked – was the fire in his eyes. Maybe John was just seeing things he wanted to see, but after a day of reading briefs complete with pictures of spiders the size of a plate, and bickering with Kitty about the most minor aspects of every policy his Department has ever proposed, it’s nice to see someone as passionate about the public service, in all its regimented chaos, as he is.

He’s also read some of the briefs that Hamilton has sent back, claiming that fish import laws are not in his jurisdiction, and the guy doesn’t mince his words. It’s just lucky that John agrees:

“So you can’t arrange me an unsolicited meeting, but you can call the Treasury Secretary ‘Alex’,” John says, letting his tongue roll around the ‘x’, testing out how it sounds when he says it. “That seems fair – not.”

“Well, while you’re busy lusting over the guy who’s indirectly my boss – and kind of your boss, since he’s the reason everyone in the civil service gets paid on time – I’m helping him pick out his ties for major events.” Hercules’ smirk is unbecoming, and John would love nothing more than to wipe it off his face, but Hercules just shrugs a shoulder and sculls the last of his drink. “That gives me the right to call him Alex.”

“He did look good in that purple tie he wore on CNN last week,” John agrees, ducking his head to grab his phone from his bag and check it, lest Hercules spots him blushing. When he emerges, he adds, “Although of course I only noticed it because Fox did a follow-up claiming it was yet more evidence that Hamilton’d secretly have us re-join the Commonwealth.”

“Dude, what are they thinking?! Alex wrote the best case for Scottish independence since William Wallace, and that shit was written in Gaelic,” Hercules replies. “Rumour has it _Washington_ was almost persuaded to publicly pick a side, and –“

“And yet, Thomas Jefferson learnt the bagpipes and proceeded to play them at every Cabinet meeting for two weeks until he acknowledged that he wasn’t actually Secretary of State and had no jurisdiction anyway,” John finishes. The story is legendary; it was the first month of the Washington Administration, and Kitty had once come back to the office so frustrated she’d threatened to turn Jefferson into something resembling haggis and bury him wrapped in tartan. She had been so worked up, she hadn’t even noticed when John had spent argued the entire afternoon monitoring the NPS Facebook page and picking fights with denialists on a post about their new climate change strategy.

“Not to mention that other incident with the British Prime Minister,” he adds, after a moment’s pause, because _god,_ is there ever a scandal that Alexander Hamilton’s not at the centre of? It’s probably why the stupid, reckless part of John’s brain, the part that says things like _another shot of tequila please_ and tells him to only pick up his dad’s calls when he’s drunk or running to a meeting and has an excuse to dramatically hang up, is kind of fixated on the fucking Treasury Secretary of the United fucking States.

Hercules is still smirking though, and John takes the lack of teasing about his crush for what it is: a sign to expect _so much shit_ later, when neither of them have work in the morning and they’re drinking something stronger than beer. “Well, I’m outta here Laurens, can I give you a ride?”

“I’m good,” John says, signalling to the bartender to grab him another beer, which he proceeds to nurse, tapping his index finger against the side of his glass as Hercules leaves. His friend may be obligated to kick him out of the building if he’s there without a reason, but if he was there _with_ a reason, no one could say anything.

He could also pull the building fire alarms, which would _force_ everyone out onto the street, but he doesn’t think a situation in which his mouth might run away with him and he might actually say _did you cause this fire, because you’re smoking hot_ would be an auspicious first meeting. Also, Hercules would probably murder him, although he would at least be fashion-conscious enough to bury him in something nicer than tartan.

Instead, he scrambles around in his bag for a pen, flips over the craft beer menu that’s lying nearby, and begins to scribble. The deadline for government agencies to submit bids for funding in the next federal budget is coming up, and John’s had this ecotourism plan eating away at the back of his brain for a while, a way to give families and kids across America the same exposure to nature that had first sparked his interest in an NPS career (he decides none of them need to be inspired by an asshole father). It might not be important enough to meet with the Treasury Secretary himself, but _surely_ a plan of this nature would warrant more than a five-minute phone-call with some bored intern over there, so he keeps writing. And writing.

It’s 2am when he finishes, and John lives a fifteen-minute walk from the bar and has an 8am meeting the following morning, but he takes a few minutes to admire the pile of haphazard stack of papers on the countertop. (Somewhere around midnight, the bartender had stolen the rest of the menus and slid him a notebook with some consulting firm’s logo on the top, like patrons needing paper at a bar just happened to be a fact of life in DC.). There are a lot of things John Laurens struggles with, including not provoking fights, eating enough vegetables, and unbecoming crushes on high-ranking federal officials, but _damn_ , he’s good at his job, and no-one can take that away from him.     

He also falls down the steps of the bar on his way out, so there’s that.

*****

**To:** m.reynolds@interior.gov.au

**From:** j.laurens@interior.gov.au

**Cc:** t.burr@interior.gov.au

**Subject:** Draft Ecotourism Plan [Confidential]

Hi Ms Reynolds,

I’ve attached a draft of an ecotourism plan that I’ll be presenting to the Secretary early next week. Please feel free to work with the other interns to ensure that it’s ready to go by Monday. I’d like to focus on the economic implications of this plan as part of this year’s NPS budget strategy, so if you could keep those aspects front and center, that would be greatly appreciated.

Also, please tell your fellow interns that I’m not above putting them on coffee duty every day for a month if they don’t stop tormenting Jefferson on Twitter. Unless they up their game: I think he likes it when you swear at him in French.

Kind regards,

John Laurens

Director of the National Parks Service

*****

**To:** j.laurens@interior.gov.au

**From:** m.reynolds@interior.gov.au

**Cc:** t.burr@interior.gov.au

**Subject:** RE: Draft Ecotourism Plan [Confidential]

Dear Mr Laurens,

Thank you for entrusting me with this task. I didn’t want to doubt your professional judgment; however, I was hoping to clarify a few things before I move forward.   

\- On Page 2, there’s a point about Charles Darwin’s theory of extinction. Perhaps you meant his theory of evolution?

\- On the 5th page, there’s a string of exclamation marks, followed by “f**k Hercules”. Can I assume I have permission to delete that?

\- I can’t read half of Page 8 because it appears you’ve split alcohol all over it. One of the other interns has been able to make out the word ‘turtle’, or perhaps ‘tortoise’?

We look forward to hearing your thoughts.

Yours sincerely,

Maria Reynolds

*****

**To:** j.laurens@interior.gov.au

**From:** m.reynolds@interior.gov.au

**Cc:** t.burr@interior.gov.au

**Subject:** RE: Draft Ecotourism Plan [Confidential]

Also, there’s a latte on your desk already.

*****

**To:** t.burr@interior.gov.au

**From:** j.laurens@interior.gov.au

**Subject:** ‘civil’ service my ass

Theo,

Remind me why we have interns again? If I wanted to remind myself of all the times I’d been wrong before, I’d sit at home with a six-pack of beer and re-read my eighth grade diary.

Also turtles and tortoises are completely different things. I would _never_ use them in a context where they could be interchangeable.

John

PS I really hope you didn’t think there was ACTUALLY a diary. Because there wasn’t.

*****

**To:** j.laurens@interior.gov

**From:** t.burr@interior.gov

**Re:** no one told me public service meant dying a slow death

John,

I told you this could only end badly.

Theodosia

*****

Two days later, John stands outside the airport, his backpack slung over his shoulder. South Carolina is hot and stuffy, in that way that makes John feel as though he’s been buried alive. And it’s only April.

 As he waits for his sister to pick him up, he frantically taps out several texts in a row to Theo, who’s now supervising his interns’ progress on the draft plan. Okay, so maybe the last few sentences had gotten away from him a little, but the majority of the plan is solid. With a little research and some quotes thrown in from last year’s annual report about strategic targets and goals, he’s managed to turn the plan into something he actually wants to achieve. Another reason why he should be in DC, not to mention the meetings about Greene’s fisheries Bill, and the fact that he’d been meaning to clean his desk at some point this week. In other words, if If he had his way, he wouldn’t be here at all. However, it’s his sister Martha’s thirtieth on Sunday, and she had begged him so sweetly to return home for a few days – ‘home’ being her word, not his - that he had been unable to say no, despite the paperwork inevitably piling up on his desk in his absence.

Martha’s birthday party goes well enough; it’s stacked with his fathers’ Republican friends, and Martha’s fiance’s banker friends (privately, John’s not sure who he hates more), but John focuses on the free wine and telling everyone who inquiries about his lack of a date that unfortunately, being the Director of the National Parks leaves little time for romantic prospects. It’s not even a lie, but the silent omission – _even if I_ had _a date, I wouldn’t bring him_ here – still hurts. He’s out, has been since he started college, but most of the guys he’s dated were struggling artists or pretentious pre-law students, and it’s not like he’d gone out and sucked face with any of them in public. Even if it had been an occasionally tempting way of saying _fuck you_ to his father.

Besides, most of the time, his association with Henry Laurens is well hidden; his father had been on the verge of retirement, by the time John had assumed a reasonably prominent position in the public service and – until this week – John had mostly kept out of the spotlight. Furthermore, his father is the ultimate politician; most of the time he pretends like John doesn’t exist, but the _one_ time John had gotten into a bar fight with Benedict Arnold, back in college, the whole matter had been taken care of before John could even blink.

Still –

He really _hates_ South Carolina.

*****

  
It rains all day Sunday, so heavy that when John opens the door to investigate, the howling wind automatically slams it back shut in his face. If he’s going to be stuck in fucking South Carolina, at least the weather was polite enough to match his mood. Less pleasing is the fact that, despite Martha having officially entered her thirties and being engaged to a nice man who should be around to talk her out of these things, his sister proposes that they pass the afternoon away by playing Monopoly.

“I bet you can’t beat me,” Martha says, with a wicked grin. His father and younger brother watch from the other end of the kitchen table, each looking about as enthused as John feels.

“I’m the Director of a multi-billion-dollar government agency, even if we have to fight Congress for every damn scrap of that money.” John pauses, turning to stare Martha head-on. To her credit, she’s inherited one of the few Laurens’ traits John actually holds dear: she doesn’t flinch.  “Actually, having gone ten rounds with Madison on the last appropriations Bill means I’m destined to win this thing.”

In response, Martha just rolls the dice. “Ha,” she says, smirking at him, and _of course_ she landed on free parking.

“Now _that’s_ more like what I’ve come to expect from Madison, you’re making this too easy,” John says, feigning a sad pout at the site of his own dwindling pile of Monopoly money – funnily enough, he’s had to pay to get out of jail three times already. “The rich taking from the poor; that’s a play straight out of Madison’s book. Not that he’s _got_ any game.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, in which John breathes heavily through his nose - it’s not even that he shouldn’t have said it, he’s completely and utterly _right._ He just shouldn’t have said it without thinking through the next ten arguments he can make about Madison and the Republicans’ intransigence on all major proposals currently before the House; he’s not going to lose this fight.

“I’m surprised you fight Madison so insistently, Jack,” his father says, looking down at him through his glasses. “The boy’s going places; you’d be wise to have him on your side if you wish to make any kind of real change that requires legislative approval.”

John plants his hands down on the table to stop them curling into fists. “Well, if I wasn’t fighting Madison, I’d be fighting, you know, Charles Lee, or maybe the entire fucking Senate,” he replies with a shrug, which he knows will irritate his father more than the swearing. “There’s always someone.”

“Jack –“ Martha warns, just as Henry says, “Why does Jack get to swear, when I’m 21 and you _still_ threaten to wash my mouth out with soap?”

“Because I still pay for your college tuition,” his father replies calmly, his mouth a thin line. “And, like I said, John, there are benefits to being circumspect about these things.”

Of course, John should have known. Henry Laurens Snr won’t take the bait, never has, and it’s the fact that he doesn’t even care enough to pick a fight, that his father is resigned to their relationship in all its stilted animosity, an endless dance to a song that will always be slightly off-beat, that kills John more than anything else.

So he does the only rational thing possible. He picks up the dice, slams down them in the middle of the board as hard as possible, and storms outside.

At least it’s – mostly – stopped raining.

*****

What happens next – yeah, that’s actually about the _most_ anticlimactic thing that’s happened in John’s life lately.

His father’s property backs onto the Cooper River, and John storms off in that general direction, really wishing he was wearing better shoes. He walks for a good hour, his hair sticking to the back of his neck in the oppressive post-storm heat and mud splattering across his calves, and the part of him that knows how dumb this is also happens to be the part that _really_ doesn’t care. He trudges along the side of the riverbank, where the water is dark brown and raging along in an accurate representation of his mood; in some parts, the water laps at the bank, depositing piles of mud and the occasional tree branch along the river’s edge. John vaguely thinks he should check the weather report, since if there’s flooding along this part of the Cooper River _now_ , they’re going to be inundated by flood impact reports by the time he’s back at work on Tuesday, but he’d left his phone on his bed back at the house, anyway.  

As his foot starts to hurt more insistently – yeah, he definitely should have worn better shoes – he looks for a shady tree to sit under and inspect his newfound blisters. He’s just kneeling down, trying to avoid the water droplets falling from the leaves above him, when something glints from the riverbank, the sun reflecting off the shell of a turtle as it starts to peak out from behind the clouds. And then the turtle’s almost gone, John can see its head bopping just above the water, and he’s pulling his shirt up over his head, stepping closer to the riverbank, and –

Do turtles even _need_ saving from floods? Vaguely, he thinks that’s something he ought to know.

John thinks he might have heard someone shout, but he ignores it, just leans forward and dives straight in, hissing _fuck_ as the cold water hits his chest. He digs his foot into a groove of the riverbed for purchase, realising for the first time what a fucking stupid idea this was, and clutches his arms around the turtle, pulling it tight to him. He’s a strong swimmer, but it’s flooding for fuck’s sake, and it takes all of his strength to kick towards the riverbank and haul himself up with the hand not grabbing precariously at

It’s not until John has crawled back out of the river, almost slipping on the edge of the bank, removed the turtle clinging to his chest, and walked a hundred yards up stream to set it back down in a small hollow, carved into the bank of the river, that he notices his brother Henry standing there, his iPhone held up in front of him.

“What are you doing?” he says, grabbing his shirt – now covered in mud – and pulling it back over his head.

“Dad sent me out here to find you, said it’s time for dinner,” Henry shrugs in response, and John softens. Slightly. No matter his feelings towards his father, he generally tries to keep his siblings out of it, which is easier when he only comes home for major holidays. “Just in case you forgot that

“Uh, right,” he says, voice muffled as he shrugs back into his shirt. 

He’s less sympathetic, however, as they walk back to the house, Henry tapping insistently away at something on his iPhone as soon as they pick up reception.

“Oh my god,” Henry says, in response to John’s frown. “Do not tell me I’m going to have to explain to the Director of the National Parks Service what a Vine is.”

It takes all of John’s self-restraint not to push his brother face first into the mud.

*****

**[kitten emoji] (6:08):** The good thing about being on standby for national breakfast TV at 6am is that I have plenty of time to think about how I’m going to get you back for this

**laurens (6:08):** I literally just got off a red-eye flight [scowling emoji]

**[kitten emoji] (6:10):** sorry laurens, we need all the press we can get [kissy face emoji]

**laurens (6:12):** also I think they think my name is Jack. thanks to my dumb brother posting ‘my brother jack’ videos all over the internet to try and cash in on it

**laurens (6:12):** after he decided to film me diving headfirst into a flooded river rather than, y’know, try n talk me out of it

**[kitten emoji] (6:13):** plz just don’t say anything stupid. unlike Treasury, we can’t afford to hire another intern just to clean up your PR messes

**laurens (6:14):** Got it [scowling emoji x4]

*****

REPORTER: This morning, I’m joined live from Washington DC by Jack Laurens, Director of the National Parks Service, and star of a new viral video which shows him saving a scared snapping turtle from the flooded Cooper River in Charleston, South Carolina.

[cut to video]

REPORTER: So John, tell us what was going through your head when you jumped into the water.

LAURENS: I was just doing my job.

REPORTER: And speaking of your job, when you’re not diving into flooded rivers, you’re the Director of the National Parks Service. Is this the kind of occupational hazard that normally comes with your job?

LAURENS: Well, I wouldn’t classify saving an innocent animal as an occupational hazard, just so you know. But honestly? As a Park Ranger, I had all kinds of run-ins, but as Director I’m more likely to suffer a paper cut. Not that –

REPORTER: Well, some might say the most dangerous animals are the political ones, right? Which leads me to my next question. In this economic climate, every Department is scrambling for funding. Are you worried about the potential of budget cuts, particularly given the Republicans’ calls for the Washington administration to rein in its spending?

LAURENS: I’m incredibly passionate about the work that we do at the National Parks Service, and I’m determined to keep fighting to ensure that we preserve our country and its natural wonders for the next generation. As for concerns about funding, I’m looking forward to the upcoming budget talks, and I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities for Secretary Hamilton and I to come to a compromise in the future – I mean, for our Departments to reach an agreement.

REPORTER: But you haven’t personally met with the Treasury Secretary to guarantee that funding, despite the future of the National Parks Service lurching in the balance.

LAURENS: Well I wouldn’t say we’re lurching in the balance at all, frankly. The good work that we do at NPS is well-known and well-respected.

REPORTER: So you’d be willing to negotiate.

LAURENS: Absolutely. I’m not throwing away my shot at this, but I have a lot of respect for the Treasury Secretary and his well known oratory ability, so I’m sure he’ll give as good as he gets.

REPORTER: Did you just -

LAURENS: Can we just go back to talking about turtles, please?

*****

**@interior:** Check out the Director of the NPS on Good Morning America talking about his work here bit.ly/c3i48n #bestjobinamerica

**@rahrahhmulligan:** I can’t believe my best friend @johnlaurens is famous!

**@rahrahmulligan:** @interior unfortunately it says “video not found”?

**@rahrahmulligan:** @johnlaurens you are going to pay for whatever role you played in depriving me of this

**@johnlaurens:** @rahrahmulligan join the queue if you want my autograph [kissy face emoji]

*****

It was, in fact, Theodosia who convinced the Department’s comms team to take down the video, although they’ve since uploaded an edited version which _doesn’t_ include the part where he implied that he’d like to seduce the Treasury Secretary for money. John’s not entirely sure how she managed it; Theodosia is scarily good at keeping secrets.

Theodosia shrugs noncommittally when he thanks her. “I don’t know why you made such a big deal out of this. It could have been worse.”

“How?”

“You could have died on national television.” John raises an eyebrow, and she tilts her head demurely, looking at him with piercing eyes. “Actually, that may have been less embarrassing.”

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind next time Kitty decides to drum up press by embarrassing the _fuck_ \- how lovely to see you, Secretary.”

Standing in the open doorway to his office, Kitty just gives him a look that’s somehow both smug and pitying at the same time; John both loves and hates her for it, and also wants to know how to pull it off himself.  “Laurens, you of all people should know that no one calls me _just_ Secretary anymore after that incident with Jefferson and the typewriter. How does he survive with such an antiquated view of gender roles again?”

“He doesn’t,” John replies, with a slight smirk of his own. “Probably because he wouldn’t recognise that’s what he’s supporting if a woman in a frilly apron served him a cake with his own words iced on it.” He doesn’t even bother to hide his disdain, despite Theodosia’s thin-lipped smile. Thomas Jefferson, despite being a member of the Cabinet, is not the kind of man anyone can remain neutral on (plus, John suspects he’d get a weird kick of out of people professing to not care about him).

“Anyway,” Kitty draws out, when she’s finished laughing, “since you were _so_ insistent that we get in early on this ecotourism thing, I’ve arranged you a meeting with the Treasury Secretary directly.”

And she’s _clearly_ meddling, not even bothering to hide the glint in her eyes. God, John hates how good she is at this – how does she even _know_?

He supposes this morning’s media debacle confirmed whatever suspicions she might have had. 

 “Shouldn’t we be meeting with one of Hamilton’s interns – or a low-level policy wonk – or something?” he says, slowly, carefully.

“We _should_ be meeting with an incredibly low-level policy wonk, yes,” Kitty says, deliberately matching his tone. “But there just happened to be a last minute spot become available, so his secretary couldn’t refuse our meeting request.”  

John raises an eyebrow out of curiosity. Behind him, he can all but sense Theodosia trying to hide her laughter – they’re probably collaborating. He mentally adds _find a new secretary_ to his to-do list.

“Let’s just say that it helps that my father knew Hamilton, when he was at college. Hamilton, his secretary and I go _way_ back. And Peggy was all too willing to help.”

Right. 

John decides he doesn’t really want to ask; he’s heard enough rumors that he could probably fill in the gaps if he tried, but it’s not worth the mental anguish.

“Thanks for setting this up, then. I’ll uh– “John nods vaguely in her direction, “let you know how it goes.”

And then, as Kitty turns to leave, he adds, “when is this meeting?”

She spins on her heel, looking down at her watch. “In ninety-minutes,” she says, before spinning again and striding out, so impossibly gracefully even as he knows she’s internally cackling. Damn, if she ever proceeds to a higher office than Secretary of the Interior, there’s no telling what the world would look like then.

“And Laurens?”

“Yeah?”

“Try not to proposition him until you’ve gotten him to commit to funding this damn thing. And remember the IT department has access to your Youtube viewing history.”

Theodosia’s smile is _way_ too smug, and yeah, he definitely needs new colleagues.  

*****

John definitely doesn’t spend ten minutes in a McDonald’s bathroom a block up from the Treasury building fixing his ponytail and straightening his suit in the mirror. Nor does he text Hercules to confirm that he is, in fact, on the late shift today, because John doesn’t think he can stand the idea of being interrogated about this if it all goes to shit.

He does, however, walk into Alexander Hamilton’s office looking perfectly put together, manages to take the glass of water Hamilton’s assistant – this must be the mysterious Peggy - offers him without spilling it all over himself, and even manages to get in a few quips that are entirely professional – but still a little flirty, because -

Hamilton is much more attractive in person. He could do with a haircut, and the bags under his eyes are more pronounced in person, but there’s something about the way he smiles that’s much more genuine; John can see how the corners of his lips twitch, the way his laugh lines become more pronounced as he doesn’t even try to hide his amusement. Alexander Hamilton could light a path with the brightness of his smile, and the half of the country he hasn’t yet pissed off with his public frankness would probably follow him up the track.

For what it’s worth, Hamilton’s assistant hadn’t mentioned anything about this morning’s _incident_ while he was waiting to be let in for his meeting, and none of the interns in the bullpens around the corner had so much as glanced at him. Although, John reasons, they’ve potentially learnt to save their energy for bigger scandals than the entire National Parks Service is probably even capable of generating.

“Mr Secretary, it’s a pleasure,” John says, finding that his own smile echoes Hamilton’s, “my Department suggests that I should expect a, ah, fiery debate, which I’m honestly looking forward to. As a public servant, sometimes I find there isn’t quite enough conflict.”

“Please, call me Alexander,” Hamilton says, holding his hand out to John, who takes a deep breath and returns the handshake, willing his face to remain neutral. He can feel Hamilton’s calluses under his palm.

“The only person who refers to me as Treasury Secretary to my face is the White House Press Secretary,” Hamilton adds. “I call her ‘Angie’, so we’re about even.”

John has never actually met Angelica Schuyler, but based on how quickly she shuts down prying journalists whenever he flicks over to C-SPAN, and how exhausting helping to manage Washington’s frankly dysfunctional Cabinet must be – even if said Cabinet has negotiated more major policy programs than any government in the last thirty years whilst also creating enough drama to rival Shonda Rhimes – he thinks Alexander might have a death wish. To be perfectly honest, it doesn’t phase John in the slightest.

“John,” he replies. “Everyone I work with calls me Director, except the wolves.”

It’s a joke he uses all the time, and it always works without fail. Until -

“I thought your name was Jack.”

John’s only just beginning to process that, when Hamilton adds, in a rush, “I, ah, spotted you on breakfast television this morning. Not that I knew it was you, then, although I suppose they covered the bit where you play an important role in wildlife management after I accidentally muted you. And they called you Jack Laurens.”

Oh.

_Oh._

And then, _oh,_ thank God, because if Hamilton had missed the part where ‘Jack’ Laurens was Director of the National Parks Service, then he’d also missed the part where John implied that he’d like to work with Alexander to find a ‘compromise’.

So instead he laughs and says, “be glad you missed it. They pulled the whole ‘civil servant returned to its natural habitat’ jibe, complete with a terrible David Attenborough voiceover. I’m pretty sure my family down in South Carolina are going to be making fun of me for weeks, once they get over their nephew being shirtless on TV.” He even puts on a fake southern accent that sounds nothing like his father – but a lot like his sister when she’s had too much wine – and maybe it’s bratty, but god if John doesn’t revel in the moment that Alexander Hamilton laughs along with him. Henry Laurens would _hate_ this man (there’s a 100% chance he already does), and that makes every potential embarrassment of the last 24 hours entirely worth it.

“So Jack -?”

“It’s a family nickname,” he explains, a little tersely, because it’s probably a little early in this relationship to go into the details of how fucked up his family is. He’s not even sure if Alexander has made the connection that he’s related to former Speaker of the House of Representative Henry Laurens. “I only really use it when I’m in South Carolina; everywhere else, I’m John.”

Alexander seems willing to drop the subject though; although, if this _wasn’t_ a business meeting, he would have so many questions about Alexander Hamilton not only watching a commercial news channel, but also sticking around to watch what was essentially a fluff piece.

“Well, John, I suppose we should discuss national parks funding in the upcoming budget. I’d hate for you to go back to your Department without a war story to tell.”

“You do have quite the reputation,” John agrees, wondering how he’s going to explain any of this to Kitty and Theodosia.

“So I suppose you’re here to argue for why Interior should get a lion’s share of the funding then?”

“Well yes,” John says. “Since your reputation proceeds you, I know you’ll be writing Washington a Pulitzer Prize winning novel about each Department’s funding proposals before the next Cabinet meeting, so I wanted to give you some inspiration.”

He can’t help it if he smirks a little as he pulls out the map he’d brought along, his binder full of notes still tucked alongside it. His weird crush on the Treasury Secretary aside, _this_ is what he’s best at; growing up he was always better with his fists than his words, but somehow he’s honed all that energy and brought it together with his often unappreciated creative flair. Absolutely _any_ question Alexander Hamilton asks him, he’s ready to parry with the help of his now encyclopaedic knowledge of wildlife protection legislation and his binder full of sketches.  

And he does, settling into the discussion with ease, until Alexander asks, “would you like to continue this conversation over lunch?” and John replies with something that’s halfway between a suave ‘absolutely’ and a hiccup.

He focuses on stowing his maps back in his back, hoping that if he stares at the floor Alexander won’t catch him blushing.

*****

**michaelangelo (11:29):** guess who just scored a lunch date with “alex”

**michaelangelo (11:29):** suck on that, Mulligan

**michaelangelo (11:30):** [kiss emoji]

*****

Lunch is nice.

Alexander is, somewhere underneath his rants about Jefferson and Madison and his cocky grin when he explains that actually, he’d turned down three internships before he got a spot on Washington’s staff because he refused to be an unpaid secretary, _nice._

John’s not sure what he expected, but it wasn’t that. Alexander Hamilton, former United Nations lawyer and guy now in charge of the nation’s finances, actually seems to care about what he has to say. He nods sympathetically when John explains how he had felt suffocated by the law, scowls when John gets to the part where he’d only gone to Duke because his father had a friend of a friend who’d all but guaranteed him a place, and and gives John this adorable little clap when he explains how he’d left because he didn’t want to have to work within the confines of someone else’s shitty legal system, clinging to what little scraps of justice were left. The public service is its own kind of administrative monster, as evidenced by the amount of paperwork constantly piling up on his desk, but after four years as a ranger in the mid-West plains, John is more than equipped to navigate what is essentially a giant bureaucratic zoo.

Alexander’s not always the best at listening – sometimes he interrupts to make a point about his own law school thesis, or to pre-emptively agree with the point John was _just about to make_ about how almost everybody misinterprets the Second Amendment – but somehow, for the first time in a while, John feels _heard_.

“I was a rebel,” John says, to summarise the story of his ascent to Director of the National Parks Service. “And I really love animals.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“I can see how being the youngest ever Treasury Secretary makes _you_ feel old,” John says. “If you must know, it came down to being a park ranger, or a starving artist,” John says, “And being a park ranger came with an incredibly attractive khaki uniform, a stable pay check… and a week trapped in a log-hut during a snow storm in Montana where I did almost starve to death anyway.”

“Well, you’ve probably heard most of my story via Twitter, Alexander says,” and John has – also, Alexander’s Wikipedia page is the length of a short novel, and meticulously edited, most likely by Alexander himself -  but he enjoys listening to Alexander share his anecdotes anyway.

“It’s funny,” John says wistfully, when Alexander’s finished, ‘when I joined the Parks Service all I wanted was to escape one life for another. I had grand ideas, and somehow it’s turned out even better than I hoped.”

And it has. For all he complains about Abigail and Theodosia and each year’s obnoxious bunch of interns, he doesn’t know where he’d be without them in his life.

“That’s incredibly philosophical for someone who spends most of their time caught up in funding debates and reading briefs about animal scat,” Alexander says. “Although I’m sure that the animals appreciate your persistence, which in the end, should be reward enough for your efforts.”

“Well, I’ve heard you’re quite the ‘little lion’,” John says, in response, thinking over exactly how much Alexander has achieved in the last decade or so of his life, “although now that I’ve actually had a conversation with you, I’d dispute the ‘little’ part of it.”

And then he realises how that could be interpreted – will most likely be interpreted -  and adds, “you know that was a joke, right?”, followed by -

_Fuck_ is the entirely wrong choice of word in this situation, really. Not that directly pointing out, “oh god, I just hit on the Secretary of the Treasury,” is much better, since there was still the absolute slightest chance that Alexander hadn’t taken his words to mean anything of the sort, even with the additional context, which includes him almost tripping over the leg of his chair as he hurries to stand up and run far away, as well as him blushing profusely.

To be honest, Alexander would probably be more offended by the fact that John didn’t think that a former United Nations lawyer and the goddamn man in charge of America’s finances was smart enough to identify a terrible potential sexual innuendo. Plus, at some point, Alexander had grabbed John’s hand to pull him back into his chair, and the way he’s running his thumb along John’s knuckles means he’s likely not entirely disappointed at how this conversation has turned out.

John, for his part, is incredibly disappointed when Alexander finally lets go.

“You’ll be glad to know that, as Secretary of the Treasury, my powers don’t extend to accessing the nuclear codes, so unfortunately your embarrassment will have to be punishment enough. Although, that’s probably got more to do with Jefferson telling the entire damned State Department that my ego’s as large and fiscally ruinous as Zimbabwean hyperinflation.”

“I really was referring to the fact that you somehow manage to talk _more_ than the stories I’ve heard suggest,” John replies, cursing himself for still blushing. Although, he can definitely picture Jefferson saying that. Besides, he knows better than to turn down what is clearly an olive branch on Alexander’s behalf – if accidentally hitting on someone you kind of have a crush on, and who also just held your hand for slightly longer than was strictly necessary really warrants a peace offering. Then again, Alexander Hamilton is exactly the kind of person who would obstinately go ten rounds with the Senate without once thinking that calling the Majority Leader the ‘human equivalent of the poop emoji’ and the rest of his party the ‘flies who buzz around him’ might limit their willingness to negotiate, and then offer an affectionate kind of sympathy to someone who didn’t really even need it.

“I’ve probably learnt more about international macroeconomics in the last half hour than I could learn from an entire degree,” he adds, “so, you know, you’ve got a loud roar, or something like that.”

“Something like that,” Alexander agrees, with a faint smile, his cheekbones accentuated as the corners of his mouth tip upwards, and John ignores the slightly too-familiar flip of his stomach that means yeah, he’s got it _bad._

*****

**michaelangelo (12:15):** as a body guard do you know how to hide a body?????

**michaelangelo (12:15):** specifically, your own body.

**michaelangelo (12:15):** basically i’m asking how you hide from every mistake you’ve ever made

**the glad in gladiator** ♪ **(12:20):** idk what’s happening over there but i’m sure ham’s said something 10x more offensive in the last week so ur all good

**the glad in gladiator** ♪ **(12:21):** he only holds mistakes against the republicans… and john adams. and everyone but himself.

*****

He hears Charles Lee before he sees him, of course.

Of _course_ Charles Lee has seen the video, despite Theodosia getting it taken down. Dude couldn’t find his way between the White House and the Capitol Building if the motorcade happened to be driving there simultaneously, but he could sniff out a video that might damage the reputation of a member of Washington’s Cabinet with no problem at all.

He’s standing near the doorway to the restaurant with Congressman Gates, who John recognises from way too many fundraisers at the Laurens’ family home during his teenage years, showing Gates something on his phone as he snaps his fingers at a waiter. Henry Laurens has obviously lost some of his standing after retirement if Lee and Gates are willing to go after his son; John can’t say he minds at all, even if it puts him in the firing line. National Parks is great, he wasn’t lying when he told Alexander how much he loved it, but the only thing he really gets to fight these days is boredom whenever the Inspector General drops by his office, and the occasional feral rat out in the field.

So when Lee looks him straight up and down, and then glances over at Alexander and says, “do you think Yellowstone will blow before or after Secretary Hamilton gets his dick sucked for funding?”, John doesn’t need to think twice before swiftly grabbing what’s left of his wine, leaning out, and watching as it stains down Lee’s shirt with a satisfying drip from his forehead. From across the table, he can almost hear Alexander’s pain as he tries – and fails - to rein in a smirk. He does think, _one two three four five oh shit_ , when he notices that someone is taking a photo of the situation with their phone, but then Alexander’s hand is in his again, dragging him out the door, and he focuses on lacing their fingers together, breathing in-out, in-out. He hasn’t felt so _alive_ since this whole – whatever the hell this is – with Alexander began anyway. 

The paisley monstrosity that Lee was wearing came second only to Thomas Jefferson’s fashion sense anyway.

John spends the cab ride in stunned silence, opening his mouth only to tell the driver where to take him. If he had his way, it would be to the nearest bar, and not just because he had wasted most of his wine at the restaurant. Instead, he pulls out the report he’d been meaning to read on weed management in the Everglades, and starts skimming through it in preparation for his two o’clock meeting, trying desperately not to think of the way Alexander had _grinned_ at him, right before they’d both thrown their wine at Charles Lee. Or how easy it was to talk to him, like they’d known each other for years.

*****

**Buzzfeed: Everything you Need to Know about America’s Latest Sex Scandal**

In news that surprises absolutely no-one, Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton has been caught out in yet another scandal, this time involving claims that he’s been exchanging sexual favours for access to the room where it happens with not one, but two men.

[hamiltonshrug.gif]

The men in question: the French Ambassador to the United States, Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette (try saying that ten times fast!), and the Director of the National Parks Service, John Laurens.

The Treasury Secretary’s relationship with the Marquis is well-known in Washington DC. The two have been friends since college and while sources say their relationship is “purely platonic”, based on these pictures, we’d totally forgive Hamilton if it wasn’t.

[favoritefightingfrenchmen.jpg]

[marquisplease.jpg]

Less well known is Hamilton’s alleged relationship with John Laurens. Laurens is the Director of the National Parks Service, an organisation typically not known for its scandals. However, it turns out that this particular Director has been hiding a scandalous body.

[laurens-shirtless12.gif]

[laurens-shirtless15.gif]

[laurenshalloweencostume.jpg]

Perhaps the Marquis de Lafayette can help Secretary Hamilton resolve this potential love triangle? After all, the French have a word for one potential solution.  

**Related:** Treasury Sec Ham pork-barrels civil servants with sexual favours; New York Congressman Samuel Seabury’s Twitter Nightmare; 19 Reasons the French Ambassador to the United States is the Best Thing since Sliced Baguettes;

*****

**the glad in gladiator** ♪ **(13:13):** now ur just fucking w/ me dude

**the glad in gladiator** ♪ **(13:14):** also u really need to put ur Instagram on private

*****

**[kitten emoji] (13:42):** YOU LITERALLY MANAGED THE ONE THING I TOLD YOU NOT TO DO

**[kitten emoji] (13:42):** HOW?

**[kitten emoji] (13:43):** I mean clearly I’m not going to fire you because your ecotourism plan was actually damn good, but like

**[kitten emoji] (13:44):** I DO NOT GET PAID ENOUGH TO TALK TO ALEXANDER HAMILTON ABOUT PUTTING HIMSELF IN UNCOMFORTABLE POSITIONS WITH MY EMPLOYEES NEXT TIME I SEE HIM

**laurens (13:45):** you don’t need to do that, it was all my fault

**laurens (13:46):** also he was already sold on my entire proposal before this happened  

**[kitten emoji] (13:47):** btw buzzfeed’s pun game is worse than yours. The bread/baguette thing was *way* too obvious

**[kitten emoji] (13:47):** although I guess the writers were distracted by the marquis de whatever’s abs [smirk emoji]

**laurens (13:49):** so no thanks for scoring us a bucket load of money today?

**[kitten emoji] (13:55):** they’re interviewing Jefferson for comment on this scandal which means next week’s cabinet meeting is gonna go forever [scowling emoji]

**[kitten emoji] (13:55):** GW should just have a stock speech about appropriate behaviour for cabinet officials but he would probably just get hamilton to write it anyway

**[kitten emoji] (13:55):** SERIOUSLY JOHN WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME

**[kitten emoji] (13:56):** also better reschedule the wolf thing again

*****

Just as John’s finally gotten back into his work, Theodosia raps on the door, a little more insistently than usual, and John wearily lifts his gaze to meet hers. He squeezes his stress ball tighter in his left hand as he beckons her in, ignoring the way that Theodosia glances at it with a small smile.

Okay, so maybe he’d _sworn_ he didn’t need one, but it’s been _months_ since she’s had to drive him to the emergency room with a broken hand and another reminder not to bleed all over her fancy leather upholstery, so she should just stop being smug already. Besides, this time he’s not even angry; just thrumming with a strange kind of energy that feels both like the consequences that come after one too many cups of coffee _and_ the giddy feeling you get after a really good first date.

He doesn’t explain this to Theodosia, probably couldn’t even if he wanted to.

“If you’ve come in here to chastise me,” John says. “I solemnly swear never to waste a perfectly good class of pinot noir ever again.”

“Actually, you have a call from the President,” she says, eyes wide.

“Of Grenada?” John dimly replies, glancing down at the brief he’s reading. This snake smuggling thing is a hugely important issue, one his staff have already let slither – ahem – away from them more than once, but he can’t imagine why the President would call. On second thoughts, he’s not even sure if Grenada even has a President.

“Has Secretary Hamilton addled your common sense as well as your judgment?” Theodosia asks, sounding _way_ too much like an overbearing aunt for his liking. “The President of the United States is on the line.”

Right. On third thoughts, he should have thought of that first.

John’s jaw drops. “Well, you can’t keep him waiting, Theo, what must he think of us?”

He’s pretty sure Theodosia mumbles something about not giving a shit what the President thinks as she makes her way out. John only wishes he could say the same for himself.

After a moment, the phone at his desk rings. John suddenly feels like he could actually do with another cup of coffee – or three.

A female voice intones, “President Washington is on the line,” and then there’s a click. John runs his tongue behind his teeth, mouth suddenly dry.

“Sir,” he says, and then awkwardly, “Mr President.”

“Mr Laurens,” comes the reply, warm and familiar, like the President is talking to an old friend. John grabs a pen and starts doodling on a scrap piece of paper, suddenly desperate to focus his energy. He takes several deep breaths.

“I would normally ask one of my staff to do this,” Washington continues, “but it appears they have all rather conveniently come down with an obscure medical condition that prevents them making calls. I wanted to apologise on my Treasury Secretary’s behalf for his behaviour and assure you that it will not happen again.”

“It’s not a problem, Sir,” John replies, hastily adding, “It was as much my fault as it was his, and I apologise for any inconvenience caused to the White House.”

Because, he can only imagine what it’s like for Hamilton to get chewed out by Washington, even though it’s likely a common occurrence, given how many media scrapes he gets into.  Sometimes, John wonders _why_ Washington thought it was a good idea to have Hamilton and Jefferson in the same cabinet.

As if he’s thinking the same thing, Washington sighs on the other end of the line, and says, “I’ve heard that line plenty of times before, most recently from the French Ambassador. Between him and the Treasury Secretary, sometimes I regret not learning French in school.”

“I did a high school exchange in Geneva,” John says, “It’s definitely a more useful language than Latin – although I’ve heard half your Cabinet speaks that, too.”

Or, Jefferson and Hamilton do, at least – but John supposes that they’re loud enough to constitute more than half the chaos that must erupt at those meetings. And then there’s the Secretary of War, Baron von Steuben -

“Well, perhaps there is something to be said for the stereotype of French obstinacy, at any rate,” Washington says.

Before John can stop himself, he says, “Or perhaps there is something to be said for Congressman Lee’s ability to push people’s buttons.” And then, for the second time that day, he clamps his hand over his mouth, even though no one’s around to see it. Even through his panic at what he’s just said, he can almost feel the ghost of Alexander’s hand where it had covered his and, funnily enough, the thought of it helps to slow his breathing.

God, it’s a miracle that he’s made it this far without being just as scandal-ridden a public servant as Alexander is.

“Yes, well,” and the President laughs on the other end of the line, “between you and me, if Charles Lee had become President, I should have been rather glad to see yourself and Alexander’s actions. And I suspect, had he become President and the tables were turned, he would have cheered on my detractors.”

John grabs another pen and starts shading in the shell of the turtle he’d been doodling. The longer this conversation goes on, the more John wonders why the President of the United States is calling him personally; surely this call is better handled by the Treasury Department, or perhaps even Alexander himself.

“Of course, I knew your father well, when he was the Majority Leader,” Washington says, and _right_ , that’s why. “I just wanted to let you know that, should this come up with him, you can remind him about that incident with the Dutch–“

Suddenly John understands why Alexander spends so much time in the media defending Washington’s name.  

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Sir,” he says, “but thank you.”

“Also, John,” Washington says, as easily as if they’re talking about the weather, “if you get a chance, could you work with Secretary Hamilton to find some less explicit animal metaphors regarding Secretary Jefferson.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Mr President,” John says, even though he’s already vowing never to repeat a word of this conversation to anyone, ever.

Then again, it’s not like anyone would believe him, even if he did.

*****

**Martha (15:11):** I don’t really care what you do, but you are not allowed to date Hamilton

**Martha (15:12):** I refuse to lose at Monopoly because my brother’s dating the treasury secretary

**John (15:17):** we’re not dating, it was a business lunch

**Martha (15:21):** do all your business lunches end with you throwing shit at lee?

**Martha (15:21):** because if so I want your job

**John (15:24):** no they don’t. but I have plans to beat up Clinton next week over brunch if you’re keen?

**Martha (15:26):** is the entire federal govt immune from FOI laws or something?

**John (14:01):** so, y’know, did dad say anything about all this?

**John (14:09):** … martha?

*****

The more John thinks about it, the more it turns out that he doesn’t really give a fuck what his father – or anyone else, for that matter – thinks.

Alexander Hamilton has so many scandals to his name that his future biography will probably run to thousands of pages – more if Hamilton writes it himself - and John?

If he’s brave enough to save a not even _really_ endangered turtle from a flooded river, he’s definitely brave enough to see what this _thing_ with Alexander is.

*****

**michelangelo (17:31):** I need a favor

**the glad in gladiator** ♪ **(17:34):** Ham will be around until 6:30ish, so get your ass down here now

**the glad in gladiator** ♪ **(17:35):** And yeah I call him Ham - what’s it to u?

*****

Hercules doesn’t say anything when John arrives at the Treasury Building in record time, just gives him a thumping pat on the back and a smirk before swiping his ID card to let John into the elevator, laughing when John flips him off.

John regrets that as soon as he reaches Alexander’s floor because, right. He doesn’t actually have Alexander’s number, and Peggy has clearly headed home for the evening already. He sighs, and pulls out his phone to text Hercules anyway, only to hear a clicking noise. John looks up to see Alexander stepping out of his office. His mouth goes suddenly dry.

““I’m sorry if I’m interrupting you,” he says, ignoring the way that every muscle in his body lights up under Alexander’s gaze, “but I couldn’t just attack someone with a glass of wine, get chewed out by my boss, and then not come here to tell you it was worth it. Charles Lee is a dick.”

And since that’s undisputable, really, so Alexander just replies with, “how did you even get up here?”

“I have my sources,” John replies. “But if you must know, a certain Hercules Mulligan and I bonded on Twitter over the ‘blacklivesmatter’ hashtag, found out that we both frequent the same bar, and...”

“The rest is history,” Alexander finishes for him. “I would thank him, but he’s taking my roommate on a date this weekend, who also happens to be the sister of both my secretary and the White House Press Secretary, so that’s an entanglement I’d rather stay out of.”

And _that’s_ news Hercules hadn’t bothered to drop at the bar, so John files it away for future notice, even though he already owes his friend several beers after tonight. Then again, if he’s going to start dating Angelica Schuyler’s sister, Hercules will probably need them.

“No wonder there are so many rumours about you,” John says with a grin.

“Alexander Hamilton’s civil service harem,” Alexander replies, not quite-looking at John, “ha, I could get used to this.”

John tips his head to the side and muffles his laugh in the crook of his shoulder, because only Alexander Hamilton could get away with saying something so incredibly pretentious and not come across as a dick, even though John admits he may be a little biased in this situation.

However, Alexander follows it up with, “do not take that as a confession of anything, even though there’s that frankly terrifying rumour about Jefferson, Madison and myself, following negotiations of the latest free trade agreement,” and John decides he needs to take control of this conversation before he changes his mind about everything that’s happened over the past twelve hours.

“I have a confession of my own,” he says, reaching out and taking Alexander’s hand.

Alexander’s hand is warm in his, and John finds it focuses him. He can do this. He can do _this_. “The ecotourism thing? I had an intern make most of that up so I had an excuse to spend more than a few minutes meeting with you. I’d heard so much about you – seen you on TV myself, actually. You did this interview after Washington’s win, where you were drunkenly shouting about a more equal redistribution of social security benefits, and –“

He stops himself before he can mention how many times he watched Alexander’s more recent video, because he’s pretty sure stalking the Treasury Secretary is a federal offence even if you’re a little in love with him – probably more so, since that’s a defence unlikely to hold up in a court of law – and instead adds, “luckily I care enough about everyone getting to benefit from the great natural wonders of our country that it actually worked.”

“From what little I learnt about you today, we’re both way too invested in our work, so there’s no way your intern wrote more than 10% of that.”

And okay, John knows he’s great at his job, when he’s not writing half-baked plans to seduce the Treasury Secretary on the back of beer menus. When Alexander says it, however, it feels less like an affirmation and more like a revelation, like _damn, he’s making a difference._

With that, stepping forward and capturing Alexander’s mouth with his own is the most natural thing in the world.

*****

Kissing Alexander Hamilton is –-

A lot to take in, really. Extrapolating from Alexander’s Twitter output, and from how much he likes to mouth off at just about everyone in DC (and beyond), John had expected Alexander to kiss with an intense kind of fury, but instead, he’s soft and pliant under John’s hands, even as he’s dragging John into his office down onto the couch and there are so many directions this could go – left, right, up, down and John just gives everything of himself into this kiss and trusts that they’ll both find their way out.

Turns out, Alexander also does this thing with his tongue that could bring an entire government to its knees.

*****

Later, when they’re lying side by side on Alexander’s couch, John’s hair loose at the nape of his neck and his shirt untucked, his breathing a little ragged, he says, “So, all it took for this to happen was me inappropriately propositioning you on national TV, and then again at lunch, and then in the hallway of the fucking Treasury building. So, all in a day’s work, really?”

“Wait?” Alexander exclaims. He blushes, just deep enough for John to catch it in the dim light of Alexander’s desk lamp. “You mean you had a claim to my virtue, which you shared with the entire country on TV, and you didn’t think that was worth mentioning before I invited you to a perfectly innocent lunch?”

“Alexander, honey,” John drawls, carding a hand through Alexander’s hair, and the way he perks up at the casual nickname is _definitely_ something John will have to explore later, “Our country has proclaimed you many things, but virtuous is not among them.”

“So I’m _only_ overworked, underfed, simultaneously the economy’s saviour and the reason some rich old white guy can only afford two holiday homes instead of three, then.” He sits up just enough to then bend forward with a flourish that John thinks is meant to imitate a bow, lifting the hem of John’s shirt and dropping a quick kiss to his stomach. “Alexander Hamilton, at your service.”

“Is _this_ how you earned your scandal-ridden reputation? Because if you keep flattering me like that, next time I’m on national television I might accidentally blurt out that we’re getting married and have twins on the way,” John replies, his voice deliberately light. He’s testing what this is, now, or more accurately, what it isn’t; he _can’t_ have this be a joke, and given today’s track record between the pair of them, it seems the easiest way to test his theory is to actually make a joke. God, if this is the kind of convoluted logic of all public servants, it’s a wonder they ever get anything done.

“Well, since I actually missed most of your interview, it’s a moot point anyway. I might have, ah, accidentally muted it.”

“I can’t believe you muted it _before_ I implied that I wanted to have sex with you,” John says, laughing now despite himself. Definitely not a joke then; if it were, Alexander would have been playing along. “Or that you missed the recap of it. _Or_ that your staff didn’t think to somehow warn you this might be a _thing_ that would come up eventually.”

Alexander shrugs. “People being forward about me – to me – is a bit of an occupational hazard, really. Once, some girl threw her panties at me when I was crossing the street to go a meeting at the Capitol building and it ended up on CNN. There’s even a Twitter account dedicated to similar occurrences. It’s called @hamspanties if you ever want to check it out.”

“I really don’t,” John says, but he’s laughing despite himself, because it’s not like anything else about Alexander Hamilton could surprise him at this point.

He does however surprise himself as he leans forward, hooking his thumbs into Alexander’s belt loops and tugging until Alexander is lying on top of him, and says, “As prone as you are to scandals, I’d rather rather not share whatever this is with Twitter, for a while.”

Alexander’s protests are muffled as he buries his head in the crook of John’s shoulder, planting a wet, open-mouthed kiss there, and really, Alexander can tell Twitter whatever the hell he wants, if he keeps doing _that._

But instead, John just tilts his head slightly to press a quick kiss to Alexander’s jaw and then slips his hand between them, fumbling for a second with the buttons of Alexander’s suit pants, and adds, “Besides? No one would ever believe it if you told them that I got the Treasury Secretary to shut up anyway.”

**Author's Note:**

> John and Kitty having to meet with the wolf people is 100% stolen from The West Wing, since I have no shame. The title is also stolen from The West Wing (specifically the scene where the President makes Josh Lyman listen to fun facts about the Everglades at 2am in the morning because that is something I imagine both Alexander and John doing in relation to their pet topics). 
> 
> Feel free to hit me up on [@firstbreaths](firstbreaths.tumblr.com) if you want to talk about dumb public servants in love, or anything else.


End file.
